It is the hidden things,Cyclamen in the shadow of the
rock,Not the sudden profusion, burgeoning
bouquetOf some Parisian atelier -Vain remembrance of things past.It is the chastisement of winterThat beckons the spring.

It is the process that moldsThe outcome. The incremental
steps,These are the issues of life.A flower maintains its kindSimply by bearing within itselfPollen and seed in its time.Who knows what the future holds?